I’m half human, half pad thai at this point.
The takeaway container is warm against my chest as I limp down the hallway of my apartment building.One heel dangles from my hand, the other having met a tragic, undignified end near the bus stop – may she rest in peace.My tote bag is sliding off my shoulder; even it’s trying to abandon ship.
Everything hurts.My feet, my lower back.My scalp is tight in at least three places from a ponytail that has slowly pulled the joy from my soul all day.But I made it.Another day, another dollar, another minor breakdown expertly delayed.
All I want now is to collapse into my couch, slide into sweatpants, maybe rewatchPride and Prejudiceand inhale carbs in a horizontal position.Maybe –maybe– save the rest of this pad thai for lunch tomorrow if I manage to pretend I have self-control.
I fish my keys out of my bag with one finger, unlock the door, push it open—
And regret everything I’ve ever done to deserve this.
She’s here.
June Toohy – formerly Hayes – is on my couch.
One leg crossed neatly over the other, wine glass in hand, lipstick perfect, hair sculpted into high-maintenance elegance – a woman who looks like she hasn’t blinked in four hours.A half-empty bottle of red sits beside her on the coffee table – next to my overpriced fig-scented candle.
She turns, eyes bright as if this is afun surprisefor both of us.‘Darling!Look at you.’
My stomach sinks.I blink, trying to make the image disappear.It doesn’t.
My mother, uninvited, in my apartment, mid-wine-bottle and wrapped in my throw blanket like she owns the lease.
‘Did I die?’I ask flatly.‘Is this the afterlife?’
She lifts her wineglass in greeting.‘Can’t a mother visit her daughter?’
I stare at her.‘A text would’ve been nice.’
‘Oh, please.You never answer.And look at you.’She tsks, scanning me from head to broken heel.‘You look … tired.Go take a shower, you’ll feel better.I’ll set the table.’
Before I can say anything, she’s already on her feet, plucking the pad thai from my arms and waltzing into the kitchen as if I invited her, as if this is her apartment and she hasn’t burnt every bridge between us.
I close the door slowly.Drop my bag by the shoe rack.I stare at the space she filled as if I’m watching a movie I’ve seen before and already hate.
My entire body is braced.Tight in that quiet, familiar way I always feel around her.
As though one wrong move could trigger a memory I’ve spent years trying to forget.
And all I wanted was to put on sweatpants and rot in peace.
The shower is set to scalding.
Not warm.Not relaxing.Scalding– the kind of heat that peels the day off my skin and hopefully the emotional residue that came with it.I stand under the stream, arms braced against the tiles, steam rising thick around me, thinking,Why now?
That’s the thing about June.She never shows up when things are a mess.She doesn’t do crisis.She does aftermath.AfterI start to feel grounded.AfterI’ve begun pretending that I’m a person with a routine, a budget, maybe even a decent therapist.Then she swoops in – a high-drama cold front, trailing vintage perfume and unsaid things behind her.
When I re-emerge, she’s set the table.Or, well – set thecoffee table.Two mismatched bowls sit on cheap placemats she pulled from my kitchen drawer.The pad thai has been divided unevenly – hers suspiciously larger – and my candle’s been lit, as if this is some kind of mother-daughter séance.
She’s already halfway through her portion.
I sit in a fresh pair of pyjamas, hair still damp.I don’t speak.
She does.
‘There was a woman in the hallway earlier,’ she says, plucking at her noodles.‘The one with the dog.Rude.Didn’t even smile.Just stared at me like I was furniture.’
I chew slowly.‘That’s Mrs Bateman.She’s blind.’
